Case

He had tears rolling down his face
He said:
‘I’ve spent all my money on speed
I’ve stolen off my parents
I’ve stolen off my friends
I’ve broken into houses
I’m dealing to support my habit’
I should have said:
‘You’re really fucked up man’ and got him some help
But I said:
‘Have you got some now? Well let’s have some then’


Timothy Parkin (Western Australia)

Editor's reminder: we should not assume that this poem (or any poem) is autobiographical.

Spoonful of thoughts

rainy day
the count of every drop
from the hut's roof


moonless
the pack of words
untouched


what becomes of I
is what is left after
unbecoming


Poornima Laxmeshwar (India)

The feathers of the wilder colours

Is it really freefall
Or will you bounce off bends of the tunnel
Is it really freefall
Or will you also pass thru gray clouds of unease
Is it really freefall
Or will feathers of the wilder colours bounce off you
Is it really freefall
Or have the motors merely stalled
Is it really freefall
Or is it sometimes actually a sinking into...
IS IT REALLY FREEFALL JUST BECAUSE YOU CAN SEE ALL THE WAY TO COLD EARTH
IS IT REALLY FREEFALL JUST BECAUSE THERE IS NOTHING MORE REAL THAN THE AIR RUSHING RIGHT THRU YOU
Is it really freefall — can it really happen like that?

Steve ‘JC the Washingmachine’ (Western Australia)

First published on the author's Facebook page

Too much thinking

While discussing death
With Marley
At 5 a.m.
Leaning forward
On a 3-legged chair
To keep from tipping
I noticed the dust
Collecting in the corners of the room
And wondered
If we kept talking too long
Would we bury ourselves
I kicked him out
Finally
And began to lay down
Strips of aluminium foil
So the light
Would cast my reflection
And I would know
That I was still alive


Andrew R Crow (Canada)

Touch of the Butterfly

Ever watch a butterfly touch down?
There’s no screech of tyres or smoke puff,
just the fractional stopping of time
as the selected leaf or red bud
trembles imperceptibly and
braces for this,
the softest
kiss.


Glen Phillips (Western Australia)
From Glen's forthcoming book Crouching Tigers: China Poems 1

Oblivion

morning has to come
at some point.

you are the sole pedestrian
measuring the length of the body
trailing your shadow
under the street lights.

it all belongs to you.
the night sky and vacant streets.
the passing cars that do not stop for you.
and the voices whispering
into the distance, especially.

and when it begins to rain
you will not seek cover
or turn back towards the room
where you are living.

you know that no one can help you.
at this distance everyone is gone
and the rain is telling you something.


Robbie Coburn (Victoria)

Salt

It all comes down to
the division of land
the subtraction of trees
the addition of fertilisers
the multiplication of wheat
the sum total of salt


Horst Kornberger (Western Australia)

Syria

This is Omran. He is alive.
He sits, face bloodied and tearless.
He sits, his five year old body too little
For the orange ambulance seat.
His legs too short to reach the floor.

This is Omran. He is alive.
His knees and legs are dusty from the rubble
That his family may still be buried under.

This is Omran. He is alive.
He sits mute, alone, still.
All around, the sounds of war, sirens,
Traffic, men shouting.

This is Omran. He is alive.
One minute playing with a toy truck at home.
The next, bloodied and buried.
This is Omran. He is alive.

This is Omran. He is alive.


Jhilmil Breckenridge (India)